


Waterlogged

by cge0361



Series: Ocimene [1]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Geographical Isolation, Interspecies Relationship(s), Shipwrecks, Wilderness Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-10
Updated: 2011-10-10
Packaged: 2018-05-29 23:52:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6399277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cge0361/pseuds/cge0361
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A European merchant emerges the ultimate survivor of his ship's wreck. He rafts away to the nearby island home of the strange bird that helped precipitate the disaster in the first place in hopes of surviving in a distant uncharted land.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waterlogged

 

* * *

  
Waterlogged, The Diary.  
  


* * *

  
Seventeenth Day of May in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Having emerged from my prison, I, Magnus Horgstaal, find myself to now be the only survivor of the good ship Pembroke's wreck.  
  
Barricaded in a forgettable corner of the hold with little more than a pot and a flask, I managed to elude the mania that swept over my ship soon after it ran a-ground. Her resting steady but impossible to repair slowly drove the men to madness. Now alone, I begin this journal in hopes of avoiding a like-wise fate brought on by solitude.  
  
Pembroke ran a-ground amid what seemed flat open ocean during the high tide, and all the men's efforts were in vain to dislodge her. Morale stayed high while the men had supplies. Some became children again and played on the rocks when the tide fell low to expose a nefarious out-crop of stone, and engaged in sport on an adjacent sandbar. When the supplies ran thin and the shadow of Nyx fell upon them, they became like werewolf, and soon began to tear each other apart.  
  
Because of the bird.  
  
It looked like a parrot, with a strange crest on its head like a black pennant. (Quite fitting.) It flew in from east-by-north. Our expedition being one of natural-ism, the captain immediately changed course to find the island it must have come from. The men of high education drew pictures of it in their empty books. If you reading this is not me, you surely noticed a few of their patient images on the leaves prior to this one I write on now. What seemed to be long awaited fruit for our labour turned to rot near mid-night as the Pembroke found her final resting place.  
  
The bird showed to be an adept mimic. During the playful ignorant self-deluding time it was like a mascot. O, Lord, we are stranded and have no where to go, but we launched to find strange animals, and we have one that learns our drinking songs and sings along, so suffer us to savor one taste of success!  
  
The bird vanished. That's when the madness began. Where is the bird? Who took it? Did someone hurt it? Seal it away in an emptied barrel of spirits? If we find out who, we'll string him by his ankles and beat him until dead! Most of that was their anger put to voice. Anger that their success had vanished, and anger that they could not ignore The Fates' dictate any longer. Rations were dwindling. Attempting to fish meant justifying the expense of a morsel as bait. Even if it was a squirming pest plucked from food gone to spoil.  
  
The bird came back after a few days, but it was almost unseen. Tensions were growing high and men formed small gangs through their tenuous friendships. My captain served his King and Country as best he might, but finally the last barrel was tapped. That night, rage flowed out into the first tankard for which the barrel could not yield forth a single droplet more.  
  
That silly man Darwin whose heresy inspired this mission should have been here to see! He would probably write a book of the descent of man by recalling the horror as these sailors I once knew all by name transform into baboons. Perhaps I will do that for him, should I collect enough paper and ink. His imagined natural laws and the proven laws of God Almighty played their roles without error as first the violent men destroyed each other out of insolence, second the typical men destroyed the surviving violent men out of prudence, finally the timid men destroyed the surviving typical men out of fear that they may too become violent men in absence of greater threat, thus letting the meek inherit this tiny patch of accurs'd earth.  
  
They did not pause for thought! If the absence of threat would seduce a typical man to violence, what would become of a timid man after it seduces him to destroy a typical man?  
  
I saw. It started with first mate Hollingsmoth assuming leadership after the captain fell in the brawl. He wasn't an evil man. He even arranged a proper funeral service for the captain next morn. A brief respite of order, it was. Three days later, there were more bodies to bury than hands to haul them to pyre on the sandbar.  
  
Because of the bird.  
  
After that second wind of civility blew away, the number of mouths were now fewer, but the final rations were nigh gone. Men started talking of who could be sacrificed, to save a ration or to cannibalise forthwith. The bird heard every word and carried it from the speaker to the man spoken of.  
  
It must have learnt our names as good as our songs.  
  
Paranoid men hearing parrot-echoed voices started taking action. I put my most recognizable clothes on a reasonable body as decoy, gathered my personal cache, and hid amongst the emptied crates and barrels in the hold.  
  
I think Hollingsmoth was the last one. His affluent up-bringing gave him a knowledge of fencing beyond the skill of the remaining men. What a strange instinct it is to hear a man grunt his last and somehow know he was run through with an antique dagger. To hear it, despite great wood work between you and him. So quiet this ship had become in the end.  
  
I was driven from my blind by thirst and the humours of my own wastes. I expected wholeheartedly to be run through by Hollingsmoth as I emerged, or perhaps get beheaded straight away. My fear followed me until I found Hollingsmoth's body draped across the wheel. He held his weapon with his breast, and if it was not lodged there by his own hand but that of another, that villain must have cast himself into the ocean or is lurking still despite my exposure. A small note in his pocket read, “The dread bird that steals the voices of men has killed us all.”  
  
Not yet, but I hear the ghostly mutterings of dead men all about me. The bird is still at this ship and it speaks all of our final words.  
  
All except mine. Should I never again speak, might I meet salvation? Bird or naught, this ship will form my tomb unless I forge from it a means to refuge.  
  


* * *

  
Nineteenth Day of May in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
I owe a debt to my great-grand-father for ensuring that I was a student of woodworking as well as the mercantile maths I chose to study. With diligent effort I have fashioned a tiny ship of my own from the husk of the Pembroke. The tools I use are stained with blood, and I pray that those which became murder weapons will be absolved by becoming implements of my escape.  
  
My raft seems to withstand the approximate weight of myself and the resources I intend to salvage. Most fit secure in a fine chest I took from the captain's suite. If Poseidon should turn it over and take it all from me, so be it, but let no man bear witness that I failed to try at it.  
  
The learn'd men's property provides much I can use. Glassware has allowed me to distill water to drink, and the man they sent to study plants brought seeds which has kept the bird's interest. Most are tagged by Latin names but a few should bear food if I can find a place to plant them.  
  
To-night the sunset is bright, red, and clear. To-morrow I will ask the bird to lead me to his home. Half of my mind expects to be led to the gates of Hell. The other half expects the bird to shout, “Sure thing, my friend!” in a mocked voice of my friend smith Smith, and lead me to a lush island, pristine with fruit trees bearing bee-hives that yield honey with graceful generosity.  
  
To-morrow is not a day too soon. The emptiness within my belly is bringing the madness upon me.  
  
Should to-morrow bring forth final disaster and this already be the end of my diary, let it end with this:  
  
While I may have died, in your hands lies proof that something of me survives.  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Second Day of May in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Wearing my captain's hat beneath the noon-time sun, I suspected I was suffering visions from the elements, but, lo! the bird's island is now in view through spy glass, and a charitable wind brings it steadily closer. I can taste the honey already.  
  
The bird now rests on my raft. It seems to believe its work to be done. Although I wonder if that is a trick, since I know not if its design was to carry home the last man of the Pembroke or to make game of its final victim.  
  
The winds are favorable but the distance is great. I wonder how high the bird flew to see the Pembroke rise over the rim of the horizon.  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Fourth Day of May in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
The sea delivered me safely to the island's shore and even granted a bite of nourishment in the form of a queer fish, flat and pink, washed ashore near where I landed.  
  
The bird left me before I reached shore and has not been seen or heard since. I hope that his work is indeed done.  
  
I have given up on creating a proper domicile at this point, and am satisfied having dismantled my raft and created from it an elevated platform at the seam between beach and jungle. I do not forget the path my shipmates followed as I find myself feeling like a boy again, building a tree house.  
  
To-morrow I must begin careful mapping of my surroundings. I have already discovered a small bush providing fruit that has sustained me since landing, but it will soon exhaust. This fruit is unfamiliar to me, and like the men who owned this journal before me, I shall attempt to draw its likeness for the sake of writing “was not poisonous” beside its likeness.  
  
I have not encountered any fauna here. Aside from Hollingsmoth's dagger and a few tools, I am without weapons. If this island is inhabited by man, I hope that I do not learn of the fact in the night at the end of a spear. I will set about fashioning spears of my own to-morrow, in hope that there are game animals to take with them. I have not enjoyed a meal of meat in some time.  
  
A proper source of flame would be useful if meat can become a part of my routine. I carried with me an old tinder box I collected from the Pembroke, but its flint is lost. I must find a suitable stone to replace it.  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Seventh Day of May in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Subsisting on fruits and berries. I have found, with my boots sometimes, evidence of fauna on this island. Excepting those occasional heaps of excrement, nothing particularly large or courageous appears to me. Most encounters have been nothing more than unexpected rustling of bushes where the grass grows high. The only animal I've actually seen was orange and feathered. I caught but one fleeting glimpse, but it was certainly greater than a fowl farmed at home for its meat. Were it not for its colour, it might fit a description of exotic birds seen on other expeditions.  
  
I have established a routine for my daily needs, but underestimated the value of storage containers. I should have brought more emptied liquor bottles from the ship. I can produce a small surplus of distilled water on good days, but cannot store it. My assumption that I would encounter coconuts or gourds and machine them for containment has failed me.  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Ninth Day of May in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
First bush of berries exhausted. I have tried planting seeds from its yield in the soil nearby and devoted excess water production to its care.  
  
Continued exploration of the island has met with no savages, but also no game. Admitting I am a clumsy and careless hunter, I hoped to at least spear something by accident in this much time. I have considered turning to the sea for its meat, but the crabs here are very large and I would not wish to lose a finger, or perhaps a hand, to them. I have seen a few more of the pink flat fish in the shallows, but they dart away well before I can ready my spear.  
  
Land animals remain elusive, but I did catch a glimpse of the orange fowl again. It was nearing me when I gave it start and it escaped. Perhaps I am the one being hunted?  
  


* * *

  
Thirty-First Day of May in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
After two days, I enjoy a chance to rest in relative comfort and safety. Because of the bird. Not the talking parrot, the orange one. At least I think it's a bird.  
  
Yester-day, I again tried to become a hunter and sought the monsters of this jungle. As though Artemis took pity upon me and delivered unto me a bounty, I stumbled upon a creature in its slumber. I felt shamed somewhat, about to kill a sleeping beast, but if I had known what vengeance it would soon exact on me, I would have discarded my spear and stabbed it through an eye and into its brain with Hollingsmoth's dagger without a second thought. My spear's thrust was impotent against the creature's back, which proved to be a shell, leathery and sectioned like a pangolin but as solid as tortoise. It chased me through the underbrush until I climbed a small tree. It then attacked the tree until it began to topple. I leaped across into the limbs of a larger, stronger tree. Out of reach, the monster continued to harass me, somehow summoning the leaves of the trees surrounding to pelt me in timed bursts. Parts of my outfit are damaged by their edges, and no part of my exposed flesh is without long, thin wounds.  
  
When it eventually tired, it took rest at the bottom of the tree. Any attempt to descend roused it again. At some point I conceded to the stand-off and nestled against the tree: no sense in letting the monster sleep and take none for myself.  
  
This morning, the battle continued with my attempting to sneak away and the monster assaulting me with leaves, which somehow the nearby trees never became stripped of. Near noon-time I caught a glimpse of the orange fowl that I wrote of before.  
  
I was expecting something of a dodo like the stories told through the history of seamanship feature. This was nothing like the woodcut printings seen in the learn'd men's books. It burst from the scrub and shrieked at the monster that trapped me, startling the beast and turning its attention away from me, posturing a defense as it slowly stepped back-wards. The fowl strutted toward it, arms, truly not wings, out-stretched, and menacing the monster with its claws, which were of the calibre of a great African predator. Then, it drove the monster off with fire.  
  
I realise now that to anyone reading this text, I must sound like a raving mad man, but were He to stand before me now, I would swear upon my soul and tell the Lord to His face that this is what I saw transpire. Like the red dragon of Wales, it summoned up from its belly a gout of flame and spat it at the beast, setting the bush upon its back (how it grows there I can't surmise) a-flame and forcing its retreat. The fowl gave chase and I took the opportunity to descend and return to the safety of my personal tree.  
  
This makes twice that a bird of this strange isle has, inadvertently or with willful intent, saved my life.  
  


* * *

  
First Day of June in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Rain. Should they not be drowned, my berry garden might appreciate this spell, but my personal opinion is one of distaste. I have lost my fire and shall struggle to create one a-new with soggy kindling. If the rain does not let up presently, I must venture into the jungle and search for another supply of berries beneath down-pour.  
  


* * *

  
Continued.  
  
The rain has seemed to vitalise the animals of this island. I suffered no direct encounters, thankfully, but there was far more activity today than any day previous. At low tide, even the crabs seem energetic as they quarrel for territory amongst small pools left behind by receding waters.  
  
Something has followed me back. Near a dozen strides away to South, every few moments, a faint motion. If I move about somewhat, it gives itself away to change position and keep its sight on me. I hope it is not the bush tortoise, but if it is, I swear that Hollingsmoth's dagger will taste warm blood again!  
  
The berries I found are quite bitter, but I will not forego nourishment at the behest of my taste buds. It is still a flavour that I will not consume for recreational sake yet. I have two more than I can stomach and will throw them long into the jungle in the monster's direction. Maybe the monster will be scared off. Maybe it will eat them and forget about me. Maybe it will learn me to be a source of food and become a nuisance. I am too wet and chilled by wind gusts to care.  
  


* * *

  
Second Day of June in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Rain continues to fall. I awoke to learn that my platform is not secure, as I was visited in the night by some one or thing. Nothing seems to have been thieved or ruined, and four berries, two of the variety I first discovered, and one of two different undiscovered flavours have been placed near my chest of salvage. The parrot should be an unlikely culprit, so I take solace that my visitor was benevolent and interpreted my assault as an obtuse form of trade, but I also know well that benevolence is not firmament. Pembroke was heavy with benevolent souls when she launched, and one malicious wish can un-do me in my slumber. If the weather breaks, I may attempt to re-build my platform at a greater height, but until then I will create a barricade of sorts with my spears. If they are not enough to bring me food as weapons, O may they save me from becoming food for another, should one night a beast come to call.  
  


* * *

  
Third Day of June in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Forgive my lack of artistic talent. It's not a pig. It looks like a pig but it's not a pig. I draw it standing on its hind legs because it does, not because of the way this paper is shaped. That is a large shell clamped to its tail. The shell has eyes. I don't understand what breathed life into this horrible abomination, but I swear it to be real. And delicious. It tastes better than pig, especially the tail once the meat is extracted from the shell. The shell contained some meat of its own as well, but that part is rather unpalatable.  
  
I discovered this abomination while struggling through the jungle. Despite the continued down pour, I again sought berries as none were gifted to me in the night. The spear fence worked to that end. I took one spear with me as I foraged and was prepared to turn back empty-handed when stirrings in near-by bushes caught my attention. A great orange familiar fowl appeared and stumbled forth with a limp. It seemed quite hurt although it showed no wounds. It also was suffering dizziness or confusion, as it did not notice me at all and collided with the smaller trees standing in its path. I stepped aside and behind some cover just as the abomination pursuing the fowl emerged. It was not particularly fast, but it walked (upright) with a steady plodding gait and it seemed focused on capturing the fowl. I let it pass by my blind and tracked behind it.  
  
I did not even think of what I was doing but when the fowl finally fell into a half hollowed tree stump and the abomination descended upon it, I ran up from behind and ran the pig beast through with my spear. It struggled for only a moment. My aim must have found its vital pieces.  
  
The fowl and I stared at each other for some time. I did not want to abandon it in such a state, but I also did not want it to lash out at me as a wounded animal often does. The rain water clinging to its vicious talons reflecting the overcast sky above through the jungle canopy looked more intimidating than the abomination in whole. I only brought myself to trust it when it sang a faint call and began to move toward me. We negotiated a way that I could carry it, since it is about half as tall as myself, and drag the impaled abomination behind us.  
  
All the way back, I felt comforted. Despite being soaked completely through all its feathers, it still felt warm to touch. Warmer than any living being I've held in my arms.  
  
The smallness of my domicile became evident by bringing another body beneath what remains of my sail, which serves as roof, walls, and door. I struggled to make a fire with my tinderbox and the sturdiest stone I have found, but found no luck. That is, until the fowl saw a spark fly, and somehow understood my intention. As it did to the monster before, the fowl conjured flame and minutes later, I was dressing the abomination in preparation to serve a well-cooked meal.  
  
As I write this, the fowl lies against me. Despite its expressed power of magic fire and claws that can rend flesh effortlessly——I saw this as it sectioned the abomination's meat into small pieces that its beak could manage to swallow up easily——I feel strangely comfortable with it beside me. I wonder if it is being better off with the Devil you know, or if I have been longing for trustworthy companionship stronger than I would have attested to.  
  
I'm not certain why I have described it as trustworthy when I know so little of its kind or even if this is the same one that benefited me before. It makes a strange and distinctly bird-type sound. The only words that I can think of to describe it are “soothing” and “happy.”  
  


* * *

  
Nineteenth day of June in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Forgive my lapsed attention to this journal. My inkwell tumbled and I am now using juice from one of the local varieties of berries as a substitute. It is a small berry, much smaller than the ones I have taken as food. The fowl finds these edible, but my experience was quite distressing, and when I draw the berries on a following page, I will label them “poisonous.”  
  
If the fowl was brought from this place to any meeting of the great minds of Europe, it would be heralded a savant of the animal kingdom. It seems to have a vast capacity for learning to communicate, not unlike the parrot that so quickly learned to not only speak the tongues of the Pembroke's men, but the very names of those men. This animal cannot speak in words, but it shows undeniable understanding of mine once I make intentions plain enough. It learns what I call my things, and from using small berries as example, it now understands the names of numbers and how to figure easy sums and differences. It has to-day communicated to me that it is a female by way of denying her possessing certain traits that I as a male possess and vice versa. Since female birds tend to carry a drab colouration compared to their males, I am curious of what plumage is worn by cocks of her species.  
  
I believe I will name her Lydia, in honour of a woman I knew in my youth who paid me as much charitable attention as this fowl, but to whom I was too young and foolish to return in kind. That was a mistake I will not repeat, despite this Lydia being a game hen.  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Fourth Day of June in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
My novice attempts at gardening are beginning to pay off, not of my skills but of these berry plants' hardy natures.  
  
The last few days have been spent to establish a more appropriate domicile. I began clearing away a small area devoid of large trees but a few saplings easily felled by day, and have been preparing additional spears that I will use to fence off my berry gardens by light of campfire (burning away the cleared brush) on the beach beneath starlight.  
  
Every seaman learns the map of the night sky. It is vital to his survival. There is something wrong with this sky, but I can't seem to see exactly what. The stars are there, bright and sparse to the north, dim and numerous to the south, the glow of the celestial band, but there is something just wrong about it. It is like seeing a dream that you would swear were awak'dness. At this moment everything ought be just, but disagrees with memories of past moments in subtle ways.  
  


* * *

  
Seventh Day of July in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
I observe a natural order of things on this island affecting the fauna I most frequently encounter. Lydia's fire drives off many of the jungle creatures, who seem to have dominion over its flora. They in turn bully freely the strange pigs that linger near small pools of the interior and the crabs, when they sometimes emerge from the jungle and hunt fish from the ocean. I have observed this a few times with my spy glass, although none have approached my encampment. The crabs and strange pigs especially in turn give Lydia a case of nerves. I presume this cycle of domination preserves the balance of nature on this island. However, I do not know how the parrots fit in. I have seen a few in flight, but they seem to roost much deeper within the island's interior.  
  
Twice weekly Lydia and I have taken up the hunt. Strange pigs are found easily nearby, congregated at a fresh-water pool. I would enjoy to swim there for relaxation, but the pigs won't abide that peacefully. I don't blame them, since they surely know now that I am a predator of their kind. What baffles me is how they defend themselves. They will emit an eerie groan and immediately I develop a sharp headache. Lydia is clearly affected in the same way and even more sharply. I am certain that is what affected her the day she was accosted by one of these animals. They are also wont to attack in a crude physical manner, but are easily escaped as they are lumbering and slow to rise. I have also noticed that only a few, and always ones with shells on their tails, walk on their hind legs. Those seem to be more aggressive than the common ones, indicating a pack hierarchy of some sort.  
  


* * *

  
Eighteenth Day of July in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
I am no carpenter. My dream of creating a glorious cabin has boiled away. I am prepared to settle for a crude wigwam, the fashion of New World savages. A skeleton of felled saplings seems to stand strong, but my building efforts are limited by a lack of line with which to lash and tie them together. Lydia has been providing short lengths of vine each day through her own utility. Sometimes the vines have bloody ends. The blood isn't hers. I have done my best to not want to ask why.  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Fifth Day of July in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
We have met with the king of the pigs and were lucky to flee with our hides intact. It ambushed us while we were on our hunt yester-day and attacked mercilessly. Lydia engaged it when it charged me——bearing down with its shell, which it wore on its head instead of its tail——and she stumbled it. It then collided with me by a way-side and I fell hard against a fallen tree's trunk. A moment passed before I re-gained my senses. When I rose again, I found it assaulting Lydia. Like the smaller pigs, it seemed to resist her kicks, claws, and fires. She was in poor form before I got my dagger into its side. I stabbed it three times and was about to give it a fourth when it struck me away. With a terrible bellow it nearly blinded me with a sudden migraine and came at me again. I managed to roll away as it reached down, kicked its stab wounds to irritate and distract it, and scrambled to my feet. I gathered up Lydia and ploughed through the jungle. The king of pigs followed me for some time but at a much slower rate. We fled until reaching the shore line, and when I was certain the king had broken away from chase, walked along the water until arriving at my encampment.  
  
I do not expect to hunt their ilk again unless pressured by absolute desperation.  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Seventh Day of July in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Lydia is on her feet again, although every motion seems to be pained. She let me examine her body thoroughly and I found no signs of broken bones, but beneath her feathers is a calico pattern of bruises. Often when the sunlight becomes harsh, we take a mid-day nap together, but even a gentle embrace of my arm to cushion her rest is too much pressing for her wounds to abide. This seems to have made sullen her mood more than the battering of her body has. Writing this here puts into perspective what would be thought of me at home if rumour spread that I regularly took siesta with a hen beside me. Were it any common fowl, the scandal would be unbearable, but I have developed a sense of friendship to her that would not shrink in the face of such jest.  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Ninth Day of July in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
My wigwam is now in live-able condition. It could do for some rugs from the Pembroke's captain's suite, but for now a layer of fine soft beach sand will do. Lydia seems to think it the most amazing sight she has ever seen, despite being a simple dome to keep Nature's elements at bay. I have completed it not a moment too soon. A new storm seems to be approaching from the horizon. My handiwork will be tested by wind and rain soon. Lord let us withstand.  
  


* * *

  
Third Day of August in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
I have never seen such determination in the eyes of an animal without an immediate reward such as food or a receptive mate at hand. With the wigwam proven against the storm, my efforts have been focused on berry gardening, which Lydia does not seem to show much interest in, although she does provide a helping hand, claw, when I need it. Since the skies cleared, she has been at the shore line, battling every crab she can find until one large enough to fight her off appears. She then takes rest for a short time and returns to battle more. She has also made victim of the often green plant-like animals when she notices one. It is as though she is training herself for something. I can only surmise that she seeks revenge on the king of pigs. I do not think that is a good wish, but I haven't interfered with her activities. She returns to me with an air of pride which I will not blow away from her.  
  
My library was poorly selected. I took from the Pembroke books that seemed most relevant to survival. A book of plants, useless since the only plant it details that I have seen are the poisoning “pokeberry” which I use to make the ink I am now writing with. A book of animals; none of the animals here are near to so mundane as the ones it describes, even the ones that were added to the book after other island explorers returned home with their trophies and tales. A book of star maps I left behind. O, how I wish I could trade these for that! I still do not know what is wrong with the night sky, and without it, I may never figure out its puzzle.  
  


* * *

  
Continued.  
  
Driving four posts through the sand floor, I have created a means to suspend a net and form something of a taut hammock. Lydia seems to approve of its design and is enjoying it presently. I hope she will be willing to share it with me, I cannot make another without much more line.  
  


* * *

  
Eleventh Day of August in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Ennui envelops me and drives me to idle activities. Those men who claim a wish to get away from every man and live alone are either mad or already have prepared a life's time of hobby. Between hunting, gardening, and maintaining my wigwam, I have taken to replicating, in form or in earnest, things I should have brought from the Pembroke, had I known instead of guessed what my needs would be. Alas, my proficiency seems to be opposite of my necessity. I have become self impressed with my ability to carve decorations for my home, which serve no good purpose, but have met with no success in creating pottery, which would be quite useful. At the least I have whittled a few wooden forks and spoons, and a few tools of survey, as I now aim to produce a quality map of this island in whole. My attempts to create a map free handed were worth little more than maps of yore, those placing India on the fore-most edge of the New World, and indicating dragons as an excuse to know not what lies beyond.  
  
Lydia seems to be putting on weight. I think she is eating some of the animals she assaults. She does not feel soft or fatty from it, however. If anything, the mass must be muscle and bone. Perhaps she will have her revenge on the king pig after all.  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Second Day of August in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Since this is a personal record, I feel no shame in being boastful. My efforts at cartography are proceeding quite well for a tyro start. The edge of the coastline as far as the eye can see from my point of landing is charted and confirmed accurate. I have been placing markers at even measures indicating distance to other landmarks and travel time by foot. The markers themselves are already more interesting novelties than anything the island has so far provided, but when this island decides to be interesting, it decides to be perilous.  
  
Lydia is becoming worry-some. She has turned cold in demeanor (although not to the touch) and somewhat reserved. She has also begun casting off some of her feathers. I do not know what to make of it, but I may soon pursue her during her daily travels into the northern jungle and see if I can recognise a clew.  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Fifth Day of August in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Today, I followed Lydia into the jungle. I am not a stealthy tracker and often stopped as she became suspicious and checked her be-hind. That she never investigated my presence I believe is because she knew whatever was following her she could likely defeat in battle, as yester-day, she brought back a pig for our supper. She must have overcome their advantages.  
  
She traveled until meeting another of her kind. Lydia approached it, they exchanged some sounds, and then she challenged it with her arms out-stretched, as she did when she aimed to drive off the bush beast that cornered me. They tussled for a few minutes and she stood the victor. The other fowl resumed their conversation, but instead of chattering in kind, she squawked at it loudly and drove it away.  
  
I am suspicious of a few possibilities. This could be a territorial behavior, but she does not seem to have any interest in this area since she always returns to my wigwam near sun-set. It could be a courtship behavior, but a female-dominant system is almost unheard of outside of the hyena in Africa, and Lydia still maintains her statement of femininity after I questioned her again using the animal book's illustrations of birds nesting with eggs as definite example. She indicated that her species always produces one single egg each time instead of the cluster depicted.  
  
For I was following her back, I was compelled to make excuse for arriving at the wigwam after her. Finding and gathering a hand-full of pokeberries, I have prepared fresh ink to that end.  
  


* * *

  
Thirtieth Day of August in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
I still know not what is wrong with Lydia. She has quit visiting the jungle and taken to bullying me instead of her fellow fowl. I want to have nothing of it, but cannot think of a method to discipline her. Striking her in kind is understood as a desire to quarrel, and withdrawing from her only makes her use a more nagging technique to annoy me.  
  
Despite all this, she seems to straighten up and become the Lydia I know whenever I need help with something requiring physical labour. Indeed she is my beast of burden at times, able to heft about lumber that I would hardly lift from the ground, and even the strongest men of the Pembroke would handle only as a team. By her aid, my wigwam now enjoys a proper border fence that I designed with complication to bemuse invasive beasts.  
  
Forgive the streak across this page, she has taken to grabbing at my writing arm to disrupt me. I made folly and chastised her when she first did, revealing that breaking my concentration while writing is highly effective at drawing my ire. She is practicing it to great effect.  
  


* * *

  
Second Day of September in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
My patience is gone. If Lydia presses the matter again after today's chores, I will quarrel with her. It will surely be brief and I will be the one sporting a calico pattern of bruises afterward should I survive, but I see no other way to resolve this matter.  
  


* * *

  
Continued.  
  
Darwin has nothing to say about what happened this evening.  
  
I cannot recall the details of our brawl for much of my memory there-of is lost. I think Lydia kicked my head and knocked me faint.  
  
When I awoke, my vision was blurry, but I felt as though I were lying on a proper bed, firm but plush and quite warm. I tried to rise but something held me fast. I noticed a sound, like the sound Lydia made when I first took her in, but deeper yet featuring overtones of higher pitch. The sound was coming from beneath me. I guessed I must have collapsed upon her, and although she seemed un-distressed. I scrambled to relieve her of my weight. In doing so I fell to the wigwam's floor from the hammock's height.  
  
My senses cleared to a noise almost like laughter. When I faced the source, however, it was not Lydia resting in my hammock.  
  
It could not possibly have been, by any science known to man or any magic practiced by heathens. Such a change would take nothing short of a miracle or legendary alchemy. But, for want of any better alternative, I stammered in question, “Lydia?” and the source of the voice burst from the hammock, hoisted me to my feet, and pulled my body against her own. As she clutched me and rested the base of her beak upon my shoulder, the soothing happy bird sound continued, and there could be no doubting it was her.  
  
Any description of evolution entertained by the learn'd men call for many generations to pass for any change to be seen. No, this must be some form of transmut——metamorphosis! Like that of a worm into a flying insect. And like such, her form has been almost completely altered. Most obvious is her height, now standing slightly taller than myself as I naturally elevate my chin a degree to look her in the eyes. The shape of her head is now more like a bird of prey than a fowl, and flesh has grown over her beak, tough but pliable. Disregarding her tuft of a tail and coat of bold feathers coloured a reddened orange like an autumn leaf, her body is almost the shape of a human body although her arms' and legs' claws are distinctly that of her kind, whatever sort of thing she is.  
  
The good humour within her to which I had become so accustomed has returned in abundance, and at her present urging, I will set aside this journal for the evening to enjoy it closely.  
  


* * *

  
Fifth Day of September in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
I am drawing plans to create a lattice of foot paths in the jungle. It is not too dense to be impassible, but it is dense enough to become disoriented and lost except near a few significant landmarks. Also, a clear road will allow us to erect shelters and penetrate deeper during each journey. Out of personal curiosity, I would like to see the area where the parrots live. A few of them visited the wigwam today and seemed to strike a short conversation of sorts with Lydia.  
  
My accuracy with a thrown spear is not particularly impressive, and within four paces, Lydia is far superior a weapon, offensive or defensive, than any sharpened stick I might wield. I am attempting to fashion a long-bow of sorts, although my experimental trials have been fruitless.  
  


* * *

  
Thirteenth Day of September in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Bow making efforts remain unrewarding, I need choice materials. Creating paths is more successful. We have made presence at the pool, where the pigs now avoid us completely, large kind and small. The pool is useful as a source of water since I have not yet found an adequate way to carry water and will not risk what little glass I have by traveling it. There seems to be a small cave there, mostly submerged. Lydia is not interested in swimming, but I may explore it one day.  
  
I am making practice of planting berry vine seeds at all the markers I place. If they take, the markers will be offering food and juice as well as direction, and be easily found if decorated with colourful fruit.  
  


* * *

  
Fifteenth Day of September in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Left ankle sprained after slipping down a sudden grade. Lydia carried me back to the wigwam and has been tending to all of my needs. Out of habit and manners I commented to her, “Thank you, Lydia, let me know if there is anything I can do to make this up to you.” The flesh about her face pulled back into what I can only describe as either a wicked or devious smile, revealing the fore-most edge of her serrated beak beneath, and she growled almost musically as she turned away to harvest berries for our meal.  
  
I do not know what I have gotten myself into, but I am certain she understands more of my language than, until now, she has shown me.  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Third Day of September in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Each route I carve through the jungle presents a different selection of fauna, brought to surface by our penetrations. I am now noting these selections upon my field work map. My most recent encounter is with something of a sheep, although skinned in a striking shade of blue. It seemed quite docile and a source of wool would be quite useful, as my wardrobe is plainly revealing how it suffers this island's abuses. Alas, I know nothing of textile beyond how to market it at a reasonable price.  
  
We are experimenting with carrying a basic tent to extend our journeys, since the path cutting process takes us further from home each day. Hollowed and dried by fire, a few of the berry rinds have made manageable canteens, but of volume too small and strength too weak to be serviceable. If her fire can burn hot enough, I may call on Lydia to assist me in experimenting with crude glass blowing. But, what have I that might serve as a tube?  
  
I am looking up and seeing the sky. It's wrong again. Specifically, it's not wrong. It is wrong O so often, but for a few consecutive nights at its own whim the sky is as I know it should be. This distresses me in a primitive way, as the occasion of shooting star or nova or eclipse terrified our forebears.  
  
I try to put this out of my mind. Lydia often senses my concerns and takes on a share for herself. I cannot honestly deny the selfish advantage of sleeping in the wild beside a source of gentle warmth, but she sometimes explores in her rest with her hands, and most often when she is concerned of me when we retire. She has never let her claws do me noteworthy harm, and the sensations are not uncomfortable, but it causes an uncomfortable effect on my mind that keeps me from peaceful rest.  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Eighth Day of September in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
If this island is reasonably circular, I have now charted a sixth of its shores and all the forest within the chord of those extents. I am taking some time to prepare new markers, sharpen my blade, and rest my aide. Lydia has never breathed a word of complaint without serious physical injury, but her feet have not the endurance that my boots give unto mine. I feel foolish for not noticing sooner the toll our travels have exacted, although to my credit, when she grew tall her feet became well shrouded by her plumage, hiding the damage. I have tended to her wounds and cured a brooding infection before it became a menace. I also admonished her for failing to inform me of her needs. I cannot bear the thought of doing without her, even were her utility of fire, strength, and warmth set aside.  
  


* * *

  
Thirty-First Day of Septe  
  
First Day of October in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
I write this with my mind completely out of sorts, filled with a sense of shame. In my slumber I allowed a dream to seize dominion over my body and I began to explore her as she has me. Her body. I have been without proper confession since the Pembroke embarked and until now limited my sins to a spot of pride that I had remained virtuous in all senses a man can measure. Now, what I have done to her. O Lord the sin I have committed this morn! Is this what I have sewn taking rest beside her selfishly for warmth these months? What more, she has not resented me for my rude liberty. Lo, if anything she has become exci——no, aroused! by it. When I emerged full from sleep and realised what I had done I set to bolt from our——my hammock, but she restrained me and made that sound. Her musical growling sound. I could not see her face but I know by instinct she wore her Devil's grin. She followed me about the wigwam as I tried to gather my thoughts, and left with a disappointed tone when I made clear I did not want to——feel her body any more.  
  
Lydia, is it? No, Lilith! I have taken into my bed a succubus harpy whose body boils with the very fires of Hell. Perhaps Hell is where I am. Perhaps I never emerged from the Pembroke. Perhaps that is why the night sky puzzles me. Perhaps that is why I am surrounded by abominations that God would surely never suffer in His garden.  
  
The succubus now returns as I write this. She has delivered a small handful of pokeberry, one berry of my favorite variety (which I have failed to cultivate anywhere near by) and taken her leave once again with a sullen expression.  
  
My ink well and my stomach are becoming equally thinned this morning. Can a Devil apologise? Does it do so with bribery?  
  
O, Good Lord, if you watch over me as I commit this prayer to page, I beg, send me guidance in this time of desperate trial.  
  


* * *

  
Continued.  
  
I am going to gather a few prepared markers and further my exploration of the northern coast. Alone. With some effort I communicated this to Lydia when she returned in the evening, and that I wanted to entrust care for the gardens and wigwam to her. I think she understands. I hope she understands. I wish she could tell me. I'm not certain what I'm trying to say.  
  


* * *

  
Second Day of October in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Lydia slept beside the hammock last night, restlessly. Like a good bird, she awoke with the sunrise, but did not rouse me as she has naturally since the fourth morning of June. A few more berries for ink and for eating she left beside my humble collection of hiking and survey equipment. My captain's hat was adorned with the feather of a peacock when I took possession of it, but it is now adorned with a reddened orange feather of different splendour.  
  
Onward, to discover what awaits me.  
  


* * *

  
Fifth Day of October in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
I write this seated in what can only be described as a giant nest atop a mighty tree. Surveying was uneventful since posting the first new marker until this morning. I saw a flash of reddened orange pass through a break in the foliage between shore and jungle. I investigated, wholly expecting to discover Lydia had stalked me as I had her. I was wrong. Very wrong.  
  
My eyes saw only a blur and my ears rang with a shrill shriek. My chest felt as though it both burst and collapsed at once. I molested my ribs before moving for fear that I may suffer a puncture or may create one by moving falsely, but all bones seemed intact. I started to rise and saw one of Lydia's kind, a male I could easily surmise by his narrower hips and fuller plumage than Lydia's, approaching me with his arms extended in familiar gesture, but with flames dancing about his wrists.  
  
After all I have been through, I felt no reason not to at least try to die on my feet. I straightened up on the shelled sands and stared him in the eyes as he came against me. I now consider that if I had stayed prone or flinched, he should have slain me. I consider this because in standing fast, I showed I was not frightened by his demonic form, instead, accustomed to it, and I could see in his eyes that he recognised my queer constitution.  
  
Something then caught his attention. He began sniffing about me, strongly against my right shoulder and neck——where Lydia often rests her head when hugging me from behind. The devil made strange sounds, shoved me a few times, and turned away, inspecting my captain's hat, which fell away when he kicked me. He smelled the feather, and returned the hat to me before leaving me alone.  
  
I required a few moments to realise what this all concerned. Lydia's scent marked me, as though her mate. The feather, proof I carried that she is mine, I, hers. This devil withdrew his challenge because I was neither prey nor competition.  
  
The male devil visited me a few times that day, apparently out of curiosity of what I am, why I have become a partner to his kind, and what I was doing with long vines, stakes, and plumb bob. Come sunset, he visited me again and obliged me follow him into the jungle. I now rest in his nest of sorts, a platform of strong sticks laid across branches of a great tree. Had I not endeavoured to create the wigwam, this is likely much like what I would have constructed. I would have created a more convenient means of access, however. For the devil, leaping to great height is of ease, and his claws grip the tree effortlessly. I struggled, and am uncertain how I will descend without falling to my demise.  
  
Darwin said my blood flows from the monkeys. The monkeys have nary a concern for heights such as this. If the cost of civilisation is atrophy of physical talents, I wish my blood flowed from these devil fowl. A per cent of their athleticism would serve me greatly here.  
  


* * *

  
Seventh Day of October in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
The male devil surprised me by showing wariness in hunting strange pig. Perhaps metamorphosis alone is not enough to succeed the threat posed by strange pigs' song of painful confusion. I instructed him in the methods of using spear to take the pig quickly before it weaves its spells, and in the use of his fire to prepare its meat as delicacy. As I prepare to take my leave, through this exchange I feel a sense of having formed a true bond of friendship. What kind of devils are these, Lord? The succubus has every reason to seduce me with kindness, but what use is my favour to an incubus? If these fowl are so true in heart, why have they been accursed with bodies that sing only the attributes of evil?  
  


* * *

  
Tenth Day of October in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
My path homeward was free of disturbance and allowed me ample time to reflect on my experience wholly. Like the question itself, the answer I sought to find during this solitary sojourn suffused my mind as though it willfully selected an indiscernible form, until I reached the path's end, the same place as where it began, when it all found perfect focus. If I am indeed in Hell, and all that I see is foul illusion, then I concede that Satan has won over me, for when I dragged my weary body through the door of my wigwam and looked fore, I could not hope to see a more genuine, pure, virtuous spirit amongst all of His creation. I will not cast it away to a fear that I may be deceived, for what greater deception could Satan perform to me upon this pagan island than to trick me into rejecting Lydia's dear love?  
  


* * *

  
Eleventh Day of October in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
I have committed a sin according to the laws of my ruling King and surely the word of Testament. O, take pity upon me, my Lords, and indulge, for this morning I awoke entangled not in the arms of Lust or seduction, but what can only be cosmos prescribed by divinity, and into those arms I shall faithfully return for the rest of our days.  
  


* * *

  
Continued.  
  
I sated Lydia's curiosity with an attempt to relate my experience along the northern coast, as she detected my friend's scent on my tatters that I once called clothing. I do not know how well she follows my explanation, but she seems satisfied to let the matter rest.  
  
I feel wise to make my next journey south-ward. Rational thinking agrees, since I will add more path to my map with fewer steps that way, but another motivation has pushed me and until this moment I could not grasp it. As we took our supper, I pondered scents——those of men and women, of this were-fowl species, of the friend I made and of Lydia. Contemplating my situation called back a memory to many years ago. For the sake of any reader, or myself should I lose my recollection again, I shall re-tell.  
  
I was invited to a small parlour where a fellow merchant, of much higher station than I, hoped to entertain a party. My inclusion was less of my own merit as it was the host's desire to ensure no chairs were empty and a few persons would be left to stand for appearance's sake.  
  
Conversation turned to literature, and one of the guests, a Frenchman, extolled the virtues of one of his favorite authors; a M. Balzac of whom I was and remain unfamiliar. He mentioned a story published now thirty-some years ago it must be, but un-known to English translation and languages otherwise, about a man in liege to Napoleon who becomes stranded in desert sands of Egypt and is soon accompanied by a leopard that inadvertently saved his life from natives. He slowly becomes somewhat a partner to this leopard and grows jealous when it takes mate of a male leopard.  
  
I now see that my decision to go south-ward is to keep Lydia away from him——the other one like her.  
  
Despite the intimacy we have now shared, I cannot shut out the thought that a taste of his humours might turn her body against me. What if the taint that I brought with me was a spark that set us a-blaze last night? Am I in truth a substitute?  
  
I try to take solace, as before I took leave of her——and of my senses I believe as I look back at my self——Lydia's behaviors could have been with fullest intent, waiting for an opportunity to consummate the union that has grown naturally about us. I hope that this is truly so, for there must be many more of her breed on this island, and I am fated to meet them, with her in my company, in my endeavour to map this paradise.  
  
At the climax of M. Balzac's story, the man is put to choice between re-joining his army or being held a traitor. He bids to avoid a charge of treason at the cost of victimizing the leopard, who is seen as a waiting meal by the other men. Recognizing the man's treason against her, the leopard turns against him and almost destroys him before the man murders her to survive her onslaught.  
  
Should another vessel follow the path of the Pembroke and any of its men too wash a-shore here, I will choose to turn my back on them and my distant king, for in my heart I have already betrayed man-kind and in earnest, feel no remorse of it.  
  
Neither did the men of the Pembroke when they betrayed each other as the mania swept across her bow. If deceit is truly a detail of man, might I a man die this night and awaken a-new, clad in their crimson feathers.  
  


* * *

  
Fourteenth Day of October in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
I now spend as much time expanding my index of fauna as I do surveying. Blame rests in part on Lydia's shoulders, as she has taken it upon herself to bring me specimens while I am working at my chart. She even takes from the ocean when the jungle yields nothing. I have discouraged this, because the sea water leaves salts in her feathers which irritate my membranes when we embrace.  
  
The pennant parrot birds have been seen in small groups by day, energetically playing about. They have not revealed to me the goal of their games.  
  


* * *

  
Seventeenth Day of October in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Disaster. Met with a blue bird of queer appearance, having wings like erupted bolls of cotton. Lydia soon took one up as a challenge, and assaulted it. After some tussle, the small bird created an enchanting sound that induced great fatigue in us to which we soon succumbed. A time later, I shall estimate to be not half of an hour as judged by a shadow of my survey pole, we awoke. I intended to resume my work when Lydia came up beside me with her claws tense and wrists a-blaze. She had spotted near the jungle's edge not one but many of the small blue birds, and two much larger ones. Like Lydia's creed, they seem to near triple in height with a sudden maturation.  
  
The blue birds watched us with contempt as I gathered my equipment. They followed us as we began a retreat. They closed the distance between them and us despite our increasing our pace.  
  
Still they came on. They sang their lullabies. The big ones menaced Lydia as the small ones swarmed me. She fought them impressively, but the grip of fatigue overcame her. I struggled free of the small ones long enough to throw myself onto Lydia's prone form and protect her from the beating that the big ones were delivering her. I only succeeded in sharing it with her. In desperation, I reached for Hollingsmoth's dagger, and swung it blindly.  
  
As if it had a vampire's blood lust, it again found sup, today in the leg of one large blue bird. The one I struck fell a-side, unable to stand on the leg I wounded. Its partner savaged me somewhat until the wounded one took flight. The flock retreated, much to my relief.  
  
In fear of further retribution, I carried Lydia upon my back as far as I could manage. Not greatly far, alas, for my endurance was, and remains, taxed by their enchantments.  
  
I devoted all of our water to washing her many wounds. Should I let corruption set within them, my only means of purification lie at home, and I have not much of it. God willing we return safely, I will experiment with distillation of alcohol for medicinal purposes.  
  


* * *

  
Nineteenth Day of October in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Most of Lydia's wounds are healing properly. Two became tainted and I re-opened them to wash again. I removed many feathers from the site of injury. As I have forbidden her from any unnecessary activities or work for the sake of her recovery, she has been nervously plucking feathers from herself in odd locations, and feathers I removed from near the sites of her injuries came forth easily and are accompanied by small developing quills. While I have become enured to her feathers scattering themselves about like autumn leaves, I bid she is entering a heavy molting period.  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Fifth Day of October in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Word gets around this island. Yesterday morning, we awoke to familiar voices. Familiar to me; it was the parrot that caused this disaster, mocking my dead ship mates. Once I rose, it ignored me and chatted with Lydia for some time. I did not think much of it at the time and did not intend to prepare ink to make note of birds chirping at each other as they so often do.  
  
To-day the same awakening call, but opening the flap of my wigwam revealed not only a parrot perched on a defensive spear, but my friend from the northern coast. (I have named him Heinrich, after the man who showed my first Lydia the attention I did not, as another reminder of this second opportunity I enjoy.) He beckoned Lydia and intended to lead her away. I aimed to follow but was halted by both. I do not know what they were doing today, but all the day-lit hours passed before they returned.  
  
Since their return, there has been much commotion about my wigwam. Lydia has presented to Heinrich nearly every piece of my possession. My tinder box was taken as a humourous novelty as she demonstrated its function, but all else seemed to impress him when ever it did not bemuse. Once my supply of marvels ran out, they exited and have practiced their methods of combat on the beach sands.  
  
Moments ago, they returned, and I am now slighted of comfort. This situation appears to be one of Heinrich remaining through the night. Lydia is carrying herself in a mark'dly exaggerated manner, as though she is strutting with pride. That she is also attending to me in the small ways that she does when indicating her desires——if she is indeed boasting, I think she is not yet finished exhibiting her mate.  
  


* * *

  
Continued.  
  
I must find a method to properly study this species' behaviors, as I believe we have conducted some form of tribal ritual this night, and I know not what its contract exacts.  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Eighth Day of October in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Heinrich has returned to his territory North. He took with him some of the berries and a few spears, and left behind a feather of his own to add to my cap.  
  
As she did after our withdrawal from the pig king's threat, Lydia seems to be training herself. This time, sparring with Heinrich, and some other form of exercise she conducts in the jungle. I know not what, as she is quite enthusiastic that I do not form audience. In that way she has been forceful toward me, but I am thankful that she has not taken to pestering me as before.  
  
I have been copying measurements from my field work to my master map. I am considering options for how I will designate these many trails I aim to blaze. Names of royalty? Why honour irrelevant men! Names of places warm and familiar to me? Nay, no matter how well matched, I will always be thinking only of the differences. Perhaps the men of the Pembroke? Again, I will be reminded them not of who they were but what they became. Simplicity is a virtue. Were I wise I would take on the first as Route 1 and count until the circuits become christened all.  
  


* * *

  
Second Day of November in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Preparing this morning to re-view the southern coast. Lydia seems anxious to travel there again, and we shall depart once she returns——I tasked her to find Heinrich and bid he visit our wigwam regularly, to check on the berry gardens and partake of any he may desire, and to take refuge within should the weather turn insolent.  
  
I have again experimented with bow making and will carry my best work.  
  


* * *

  
Fifth Day of November in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Investigated a great commotion and met with a small number of cotton-wings harassing a flock of the sheep-type animals. Three were grown into a larger kind that walked on hind feet, like the pig king and his knights. These three also became pink in flesh instead of their juniors' blue. Most of the noise was of thunder, as the sheep flock cast lightning bolts like magic spells at the cotton-wings. Lydia chose to intercede and wove a spell of her own that seemed to raise small sharpened boulders from within the earth to her grasp to fling at the cotton-wings. They were harassed by the lightning, but quickly driven off by Lydia's stones, which stained their cotton with crimson as their edges sliced into their flesh. I was reminded of my experience with the shrub monster and the leaves it cast against me, although his leaves were far less threatening than her stones.  
  


* * *

  
Ninth Day of November in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
The cotton-wings watch us, but only by distance or in the sky. Are they planning an attack, or maintaining a defense?  
  


* * *

  
Tenth Day of November in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Parrots seem to be the carriers of all gossip here. We have spotted them since the battle between the cotton-wings and the sheep, and all the sheep we have encountered since have behaved somewhat reverently toward Lydia, as if thanking her for stoning their enemy.  
  


* * *

  
Eleventh Day of November in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Came upon a beautiful pond with clear waters and no strange pigs. It is full of orange fish that are easily caught. The pond seems to be very deep. Perhaps some sort of spring lies beneath this island, feeding these ponds with fresh water?  
  


* * *

  
Continued.  
  
The debt has been repaid.  
  
Whilst preparing a dinner at the pond, a terrible serpent rose from its waters. Lo, a dragon of the Orient, and quite enraged! Lydia's efforts to stone it as she had the cotton-wings held it back, but it quickly learned to dive into sanctuary waters and lurk until our guard lowered again. We made into the jungle, but it pursued, thrashing through the trees with abandon as we struggled to penetrate deeper. Lydia's magic grew exhausted and could no longer summon stones. I took up my bow and made as much nuisance to the monster as I could, but stopping to draw and aim lost as much time as my arrows could earn. My ammunition spent and the terrain ahead becoming cumbersome, we were with no option but to stand against it.  
  
Lydia's fire and kicks were of little impact, but enough to resist its advance. At one moment it seized Lydia, biting her right leg. I immediately plunged Hollingsmoth's dagger into its neck, earning her release and granting a moment of respite. However, as I got Lydia up to flee, it came at us again with renewed anger. When I was blinded by a brilliant flash, I mistook it for the moment of my death, but my vision cleared enough afterward to see the beast recoil, glance a-side Lydia and myself, and be struck by a lightning that again blinded us and caused our ears to ring with its crash.  
  
The serpent fell to the ground, limp, and I took no delay in retrieving Hollingsmoth's dagger and executing it. When I turned away from the kill, I saw what would be the queen of the sheep. The ewe had no wool on its yellow skin, but expressed the sheep's characteristic jeweled forehead and tail, and horns of striking black and gold. Its body still coursed with lightning, as though it was readied to strike the serpent again and again. Had I not slain it, I would not be surprised if that would have been necessary to destroy it.  
  
I am thankful that I was swift enough to free Lydia before the serpent found time to do more than sink his fangs into her. She is bothered acutely by her injury, but is able to walk with my assistance and having seen her resilience, expect that she will be out-pacing me again within the week.  
  


* * *

  
Sixteenth Day of November in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Lydia is traveling well, but our encounters have led me to believe the best plan is to only circle the coast of the island and return home. As tantalising the parrot's peak is, Lydia and I alone are not fit to face further dangers like the pond serpent. Perhaps I can organize a party? With Heinrich and a champion from the lightning sheep flock, we would not be easy prey.  
  
But, how would I communicate my intentions? Why would they donate their assistance to my personal endeavours? They want not for maps, and were they interested in climbing mountains, a-top the mountain is where I would have met them.  
  


* * *

  
Twentieth Day of December in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
What a bestiary have I amassed in these pages. Ink gone dry and no pokeberries availing themselves, since last entry I have resorted to drawing my discoveries with charcoal, which Lydia supplies gladly.  
  
In all these days we have been careful and increasingly wise——taking caution about fresh water ponds, raising a formidable stance to cotton-wings, and sharing our berry finds with sheep should any appear. As the coast-line turned to North, those kinds became few, replaced by the other animals I have drawn on previous pages. They all vary as widely in temperament as appearance, but seem to share a minimal quality of mind like that of a domestic and trained dog or cat, and many show a capacity for more. Lydia's capacity proves to run deeper each day.  
  
She still does not speak true words, but she endeavours to do, and she now expresses herself in simple terms. Simple because of her struggle to say a word with her fowl's voice, not because of idiocy.  
  
Today I write because we have arrived at the foremost marker I laid on my northern trek——the last I placed before taking advantage of Heinrich's hospitality——and found pokeberries to sample for ink. I do hope to locate him before sun-set, so we may enjoy a rest under familiar care. It is but a hope. With the permissions we have granted him, by all logic he ought be napping on the hammock and indulging in our expansive selection of berry. Indeed, the seeds of five new varieties I carry forthwith!  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Second Day of December in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
An enemy has come to shore in my absence! Lydia took me up upon her shoulders and scaled a great tree to grant me height needed to see long and far with my spy glass. A ship of foreign——unknown flag is anchored along the north-west coast. She carries a full complement of men who have begun establishing themselves upon the shore. Any progress toward the wigwam will surely pass their encampment, unless we cut a chord due South to the other side and advance carefully. How long they have been here, they may have found the wigwam in their own explorations, and surely raped it for its supplies. With that, they will also be alert to my presence.  
  
I pray they are another ship of science, exploration, and trade, as was the Pembroke. If it is a ship of war and conquest, we may be taking to the interior and any perils it may conceal by year's end.  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Fourth Day of December in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Made contact with Heinrich. He had suffered a musket wound. The pellet lodged in the bones of his lower right arm. He was weakened, likely of blood loss, and the wound, terribly corrupted. With much difficulty I explained the necessity of amputation and cauterisation. If his blood is already poisoned, he is lost. I have not the training to care for any ailment he may develop, and what good is feeling for fever in a creature whose temperature is always elevated?  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Fifth Day of December in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
On this day of His birth, my thoughts are not upon my savior and his deeds, but upon prayer for Heinrich's recovery and an amicable meeting with the seamen, whenever that should come to pass.  
  
Heinrich remains drained of vitality and is obviously distracted in mind, but he is unwilling to with-hold us from our motion South, and follows as well as he can manage. We are not slowed much, and I am grateful for his constitution, as the seamen seem to have begun exploring the north-west coastline, and would surely discover us if we remaine near Heinrich's territory and if they follow my markers with curiosity.  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Fifth Day of December in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
Taking to a tree top to spy upon the seamen, I discovered them to be taking a service from a minister in their company. I must have counted one day in excess at some time. It is not a ship solely of war or thievery, as there are some women and children present.  
  
We have passed some of the deep markers I set, and know we are near the pigs' pond. We will test boundaries and try to approach the wigwam.  
  


* * *

  
Continued.  
  
Destroyed.  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Sixth Day of December in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
A seaman set hunting became disoriented and stumbled upon our camp. We caught him there after harvesting some berries and established a relationship. Cinderblock, which I take as either a nekename or artefact of accent as he seems to be Austrian by blood and his English is fragile, was swift to make friends with us once I explained that the devils were my trusted allies. I felt prudent to not disclose how close I have taken them, Lydia in particular.  
  
Cinderblock recalled the story he heard of one of the men's encounter with Heinrich. The claim is that Heinrich approached with a snarling growl and threatening stance, forcing the man to fire in his own defense. Imagining myself to see a creature like Heinrich or Lydia at first, unfamiliar with their gestures and voices, I suppose I can forgive the man for what he did, but truly any forgiveness he might receive is not mine to give.  
  
I led him to one of my markers and directed him toward the sea so that he may find his way back to his fellows. He invited us to come along, promising we would be accepted as honoured guests. I asserted that I once had a home along that shore, but that it is no longer suitable for myself or my companions. His expression shifted at that——something in his eyes warns me to not trust this man.  
  
We will travel about the island again and make contact with the sheep. These men will surely seek to consume them for meat and for wool if they have any craftsmen who can make utility of their wool. They must be warned to defend themselves with all the lightning they can summon.  
  


* * *

  
Twenty-Ninth Day of December in the year of our Lord 1863.  
  
We continue to flee. As I feared, but expected, the seamen have decided that a man who is in league with devils must be taken in. They have sent a score of men, maybe two, to scour for us.  
  
The sheep have proven a great ally. A flock loosely surrounds us and uses its lightning to paralyse and drive away the seamen if they grow near. However, only the royal yellow ones have the power to shock the life out of a man, and they are at great risk from musket fire after an attack. One was struck dead thus, and another is wounded. It only lost some meat and should recover, but I do not wish to see them suffer continuing losses for my sake. Tomorrow, we will wish the sheep greatest fortune in preserving themselves and cover as much ground as possible in hope to escape the seamen.  
  
We will travel through the realm of the cotton-wings. Should the seamen follow, they will enjoy the blue beasts' hospitality!  
  


* * *

  
First Day of January in the year of our Lord 1864.  
  
They brought the ship around! The interior is our only refuge, as all the men lost to lightning and cotton-wings are now replaced four-fold. I caught a glimpse of their captain in my spy glass. He is surely a man of action——a man who wants to take all the resource and information I can provide, then dispose of the remainder. We will head North, to the parrots' peak. No where about the coast is safe if he is willing to tie his ship to the shadows of his trackers.  
  


* * *

  
Fourth Day of January in the year of our Lord 1864.  
  
They now track us with hounds. Efforts to use erratic motions to elude our pursuers only waste time and sacrifice distance. They're too close, already.  
  


* * *

  
Fifth Day of January in the year of our LORD 1864.  
  
We took a moment of respite to tend to wounds. It was but for a moment, but too long. A party of seamen approached us. We fled with greatest haste until we came upon a fresh water pond. The surrounding terrain was impassable in haste. We took positions to orchestrate an ambush. It was poorly arranged, but sufficient. Heinrich led the attack with a marvelous kick that surely destroyed his victim's skull with one blow. Lydia and myself came into the melee as the men who carried weapons discharged upon Heinrich, certainly landing no less than two strikes. He began to collapse with recoil, but somehow righted himself and threw himself into the men that we had not yet engaged.  
  
Of the eight men, I killed two——one with the dagger, second with the first man's bayonet. Lydia three, with fire and summoned stone, and Heinrich one more before he fell dead of his traumas. The last man escaped and has certainly now reported the event to his leaders. I did not get a clear view of his face, but I am sure it was Cinderblock.  
  


* * *

  
Unless this matter becomes somehow settled, this entry is my last. This pool features a cave, as many of them do. I have found within it a small sheltered area that may be suitable to store my equipment. It is too much a burden to carry forth novelties as the land becomes imposing.  
  
Hollingsmoth's dagger, a dropped musket with one pellet to fire, two of Heinrich's feathers, and our wits about us are all that we now carry.  
  
What we leave behind is more than things too cumbersome to bear. We leave behind paradise. O, Lord, what a paradise Lydia and I shared these precious months!  
  
No matter what The Fates speak for us next, I swear it, together in Paradise, we are destined to forever be.  
  


* * *

  
M. H. & L. H.  
  


* * *

  
Waterlogged, Epilogue.  
  


* * *

  
“And you're absolutely sure about the wood?” An upset professor and historian was hoping for a variant answer to an invariant question.  
  
His aide grew weary of repetition. “Yes, I told you earlier, Sir. The carbon tests confirm its age, and there is no species of tree across our nation that produces a lumber matching the sample.”  
  
“Okay, the antique chest that turned up for evaluation last month is truly old and exotic, fine. That girl who claims her pokemon discovered these latest artifacts while she was swimming near the sunken caves—did you make sure her story checked out? What about that book—it's in too-good condition, wouldn't you say?”  
  
“Yes, Doc, her story is water-tight. And the book; archaeology has seen greater marvels of survival. A few, you've found yourself, Sir. You've always beat the drum on keeping a healthy skepticism, but we're out of evidence to discredit. It's like you want this to be a hoax.”  
  
Dan's professor rolled back in his chair and opened a low desk drawer, producing a couple small tumblers and a flask of liquor, pouring it generously.  
  
“Uh, technically I have a few more months to go before I can legally—”  
  
“You'll drink it.” The professor rose and handed Daniel one glass while leading him out of the office and into the exhibit area.  
  
Professor Sindelbock stopped at a small display, not that the humble museum had any large displays, and pointed out something behind the glass. “This has been in my family for a long time. The story that comes with it is that, originally, it came into the family as a gift. My ancestor way-back-when saved the one and only Lord Hollingsmoth from an attacking blaziken, and received this, his splendid dagger, as a token of gratitude.”  
  
Dan became bemused. “Blaziken? There aren't any of those here.”  
  
“I know. Together, my ancestor and Lord Hollingsmoth eradicated all of them from the island to ensure the safety of their new settlers, although Hollingsmoth did not survive their mission. Anyway, my father donated it to this museum so there would be something to show off about this island's earliest settler, the great trailblazer and cartographer who battled the savage monsters after his ship wrecked, welcomed my ancestor and his ship-mates to his island, and helped found what would become our beautiful island paradise.” He gulped down his drink. “That book is a personal diary belonging to this island's first settler.”  
  
“It's Hollings—”  
  
“No. The man named Hollingsmoth never set foot here. The whole story everyone now believes about the first ship arriving here and the legendary founder they met when they landed, everything about my family on this island, was bullshit. My family's legacy here started with a privateersman grunt who hopped a ship to anywhere-else. There was a great first settler, and he was hunted down. His pokemon companions, blaziken, hunted too, and their species driven to extinction here. God, he didn't even know the man's real name, Danny; he just went with what was engraved on the dagger and wove himself a tale of glory to pass down.”  
  
Daniel huffed and finally accepted his drink.  
  


* * *

  
The diary entered into the Hollingsmoth Island Museum's collection and met presentation nonetheless. Its pages photographed and reproduced for public reading at a kiosk beside its sealed display case, the book became somewhat notorious as a source of support for those who were in favor of dispelling the taboo of human-pokemon relationships, citing the union of Magnus and Lydia as proof that different species of like mind can form natural, healthy bonds; a case recorded with pokeberry ink in absence of any cultural influences that muddy contemporary examples whenever they find enough courage to come forward publicly. Otherwise, however, the book's impact reached little further than the office of Professor Sindelbock, where both its facsimile and original pages turned many times until the old man could recite it word-for-word.  
  
After completing his daily duties as curator, he would sometimes emerge late in the evening and look upward. All his life he never noticed it before and no one would corroborate his impression, however, a few times each year for a few nights at a time there would be something wrong with the sky—but he could not seem to see exactly what.  
  


* * *

 


End file.
